


Apologies, Or: 4 Times Eliot and Quentin Were Terrible to Each Other And One Time They Weren’t

by toldthestars



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angsty Lusting, Communication Failure, Eliot is Also Bad At Feelings, Episode: s01e08 The Strangled Heart, Episode: s01e11 Remedial Battle Magic, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Episode: s04e05 Escape From the Happy Place, Explicit Sexual Content, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene, NSFW, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Quentin is Bad At Feelings, Questionable Choices, Sexual Tension, The Author is Not Particularly Nice to Alice Quinn, queliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26850730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toldthestars/pseuds/toldthestars
Summary: Eliot and Quentin are bad at words and feelings. But, hope springs eternal, even for assholes, and sometimes, you get to make amends.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn (referenced), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	Apologies, Or: 4 Times Eliot and Quentin Were Terrible to Each Other And One Time They Weren’t

**Author's Note:**

> Summaries for each part, along with warnings, are posted at the end. 
> 
> Thanks for checking it out!

**_Eliot’s Fuck Up_ **

Eliot rolled the rim of the tumbler across his lips and stared through the haze of bodies and smoke and his own inebriation. Something like hunger was gnawing at the pit of him and his attempts to drown whatever it was in top-shelf scotch had not been overly successful. Mike had been dead three days. Revision: Mike had been murdered three days ago. Further revision: He had murdered Mike three days ago.

Eliot was fixated on Quentin and Alice, and he might have felt self-conscious about staring at them but they were fixated on each other. Eliot was considering love and relationships, and what an inevitable clusterfuck heart-wrenching shitshow they were. Eliot pushed his way out of his seat, and headed to the bar. They hadn’t bothered themselves with asking him anything about Mike’s death, or about Mike at all, really, beyond if he believed his dead boyfriend had known about The Beast. So there was no opportunity for Eliot to tell them, really, that he was being flayed to death, and that this was what _caring_ did to people. So, what sort of friend would he be if he didn’t at least try to spare his two good friends the sort of pain that was currently consuming him whole? 

-

“Let’s play a game,” Eliot said, taking special care to not slur. 

Alice and Quentin exchanged a look, and Eliot smiled a little to himself. Jesus fuck an umbrella, but they were smug things. All people who are in love with each other are smug. They believe that they’ve figured something out that everyone else has missed, that they alone are have cracked some secret code and moved on to another level of intimacy and insight. It takes sometimes days, sometimes months, or, if you’re very lucky, _years_ to realize that you’ve just been high the whole time and you’re as miserable as everyone else is. But Alice and Quentin hadn’t gotten there yet. They thought they were perfect. Eliot was familiar with the hubris that comes from an especially good fuck. 

“I don’t think so, Eliot,” Quentin said, his tone patronizing. “I think we might have a slightly unfair advantage.” 

“So you have no interest in taking advantage of me?” Eliot said softly, in a manner both curated and targeted. He could, contrary to popular belief, be very precise when completely fucked up. 

And sure enough, Quentin’s eyes drop briefly to Eliot’s lips and he blinked and breathed in. “Very funny, Eliot,” he muttered. 

Alice had been watching, quietly. Eliot turned to her. “C’mon, Alice, let’s just have some of fun.” 

She started to shake her head and Eliot was tired of the lead up, so he strode behind the two of them, sitting so close together on the floor cushions, and wedged a hand under each of their arms and started lifting them up. “Yes, very good, let’s go. That’s enough eye-fucking each other for one evening, don’t you think?” 

They were so busy sputtering protests over this that they forgot to resist Eliot pulling them to a quieter corner of the cottage and throwing them on the couch. Eliot smiled to himself. He could be quite persuasive. And, when persuasion failed, he could be a real manipulative cunt. 

“Fine, okay, you win, clearly,” Quentin said, hands up in mock surrender. “So what game do you have in mind, because you very obviously have one in mind.” 

Eliot grinned and draped himself lightly on the couch across from Quentin and Alice. “You are correct. Never Have You Ever.” 

Alice let loose an eye roll and a groan while Quentin stared expectantly. “Never have I ever what?” 

Did Eliot imagine that Alice’s smile was a little condescending? “No, Q, Never Have You Ever is the name of the game. You know, like Never Have I Ever?” 

“Never have you ever what?” Quentin asked fully unironically, and Eliot realized the perfect couple was not quite as sober as he’d thought. 

“Alright, clearly some explanation is in order. Never Have You Ever is a psychic game. Each person takes a turn plucking from another player something they have never done.” 

“But we’re not psychic,” Quentin said, forehead scrunched.

“We don’t need to be,” Alice explained. “There’s a potion that will give you one shot into someone’s mind. I’ve always thought it was a little…” Alice glanced at Eliot through her perfectly behaved blonde hair “...invasive.” 

Eliot laughed and shrugged. “What’s a little mind reading between friends?” 

“Well, we don’t have the potion--,” Alice started quickly.

“Ah, but don’t we? TODD.” 

Dim but also well behaved, Todd appeared with a tray of cocktails. “Doing a little Never Have You Ever? Excellent choice. You know, Never Have I Ever played Never Have You Ever,” Todd blathered with a wide and friendly smile. “They won’t let me.” 

“Todd, Never Will I Ever give a shit. You are excused.” 

Eliot, Quentin, and Alice toasted, some more tentatively than others. 

“Alright, Alice, you know how this works. Why don’t you show our little Q how it’s done?” Eliot said, taking a sip of his expertly fucking made--if he did say so himself--cocktail concoction. 

Alice looked at Eliot, then towards Quentin, with her gaze finally landing on her drink. She took a breath and abruptly drained the glass, to Eliot’s mild surprise. 

“She does not come to play,” Eliot quipped. “Do Q.” 

“Uhh, I’m not sure about this,” Quentin said, shifting where he sat. “This seems--”

Alice placed a hand on Quentin’s and smiled. _Gag me with an enormous cock,_ Eliot thought. Alice looked into Quentin’s eyes, gently brushing aside his hair. “Never Have You Ever...read the Fillory books out of order.” 

Quentin looked at Eliot, eyes widened, pupils large, before turning back to Alice. “I...Yes! Shit. You got me. That’s true. But I mean, who in their right mind would read them out of order. Is that...Is that weird? Am I weird?” 

Alice responded, “Not at all,” and the same moment Eliot exhaled, “Sweet Christ yes.” 

Quentin laughed and for a moment, they were all laughing. For a moment, things were...nice...bearable. Then Eliot imagined Mike sitting next to him on the couch, laughing along, before remembering with a brief and burning squeeze of his heart that not only was Mike not there, he had, perhaps, never really been there at all. 

“Go on, Q. It’s your turn. And, no need to chug like our dear frat brother here,” Eliot said, nodding to Alice, who blushed slightly. 

Quentin sighed and took a deep drink from his glass. “Mmm! Mindreading tastes…surprisingly fruity. Okay, what now?” 

“It will only last for a moment, but you try to read my mind,” Eliot replied. “Now. Try to find something that I’ve never done.” 

Quentin met Eliot’s eyes and a smile played at his mouth. “Alright, Waugh, let’s do this.” 

He watched Quentin close his eyes. Eliot could feel Quentin’s tentative energy in his mind, which he promptly filled with images. In an instant, Eliot proudly brought to the forefront of his brain any and all of his most favored sexual memories. That time he’d pulled off a quickie orgy in the back of the library, an interlude he and Margo had fondly dubbed, “The Flight of the Dicks,” the time he’d become so inebriated and lubricated that his bedroom had become a human slip-and-slide--no, _really_ , and, just for final effect, he dropped an image of something sure to stick with Quentin, something that hadn’t happened, but that he’d imagined more than once: Eliot and Quentin, bare, laying on clean, white sheets, kissing. 

Quentin’s eyes flashed open, his hands flying up. “I--uh--fuck. Did you--Eliot?” Quentin looked at him, and his expression took Eliot back for a moment. Confused, searching, and...something else that Eliot couldn’t identify.

“Quentin, are you okay?” Alice asked frantically, trying to grab his wheeling hands. She shot Eliot an angry look. “What did you do?” Had Eliot had the time for it, he might have been offended by the presumption that he would ever do anything to intentionally hurt Quentin.

Instead, Eliot let out peals of laughter and Quentin’s panic began to fade. A smile quirked on his lips, but his eyes stayed uncertain. “Fucker, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Quentin reached across the couch and gave Eliot a shove. “I think that’s cheating.” 

“What?” Alice said, trying to smile, clearly wanting to understand the joke. “What did he do?” 

“I--uh,” Quentin’s gaze pinged between Alice and Eliot, “...what he did was win that round. Congratulations, you asshole.” 

Eliot raised his glass briefly and let his eyes linger on Quentin while he drank. When Quentin’s gaze met his briefly, Eliot felt like he didn’t need a potion to read his mind.

Eliot noticed Alice resettle and turned his body towards her. “Your turn.” 

Alice tossed her glossy hair back and met Eliot’s gaze. “Okay. Fine. I’m ready.” 

Immediately, Eliot shared, “Never Have You Ever had sex fully naked until you were a fox.” 

Alice blinked, her gaze darting to Quentin, who looked startled and shook his head at her. 

“That’s--that’s not true,” Alice faltered, which Eliot found a little pathetic, given that all three of them absolutely knew it was true. 

“Of course it is.” Eliot leaned more into the couch, propping his head up with a hand, communicating: casual, tired, bored. “Didn’t they call you the Ice Box in high school?” Eliot emphasized this with an eyebrow quirk in the direction of Alice’s skirt. 

“No one called me that.” Alice’s tone was dangerous.

“Oh, but they did,” Eliot smiled. 

Alice stood up abruptly, apparently torn between storming off and lunging at Eliot. Her mouth open and closed until she somehow found the words: “ _Fuck_ you, Eliot.” 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Quentin said, ostensibly to both of them. 

“No, I understand that Eliot’s had something bad happen to him--” 

Eliot barked a laugh at Alice. “Something bad,” he echoed, still chuckling and wiping a tear from the corner of this eye. 

“You’re hurting,” Alice said, coldly. “That doesn’t give you the right to hurt me. So, yes, fuck you. And fuck you, too, Quentin, for letting him be this way.” 

Alice’s heels struck furiously against the hardwood as she strode away. Ah, well. Young romance can be so short-lived. 

“So,” Eliot said, turning back towards Quentin. His head swung further than he meant, suddenly felt heavy, filled with bricks. A moment ago he had been taut and tightly wound, and it felt like something had snapped and an entire day’s worth of alcohol and pills swept in sweetly around him, cushioning him from reality. “Round two?” 

Quentin pushed himself off the couch. “You know, you really can be an asshole sometimes.” He followed Alice’s exit route. 

Eliot raised his glass to his lips, and realized it was empty. He was sliding sideways on the couch, and as he did he pulled his trusty flask from his vest pocket, took a long pull and then held it aloft so it gleamed in the dim light of the party. “I win,” Eliot said quietly, to no one in particular. 

-

**_Quentin’s Fuck Up_ **

Quentin was so unbelievably goddamn bored. He had watched every _Fillory_ documentary imaginable, as many times as it took to know every line. But here they were, watching what Quentin considered the least interesting, but most fact-filled of the bunch, searching for any kind of clues that might help them understand what the fuck to do next.

Even he, whose heart raced at the mere name “Fillory,” had to admit as he listened to a bland-faced academic talk about the typeface chosen for the second reprinting of the first book, this was torture. At one time, collecting even the smallest tidbits about all things even remotely Fillory had been his favorite activity in the whole world, but recent events had rendered things like fucking _fonts_ pretty goddamn irrelevant. And, whoever created this god forsaken film had some pretty serious disregard of the concept of pacing. It took talent to transform something so rich and vast into something aggressively mundane.

Nevertheless, Alice sat on the floor in front of the couch Quentin and Eliot occupied, notebook open and pen scribbling away. Ever the A student. After the recent “Never Have You Ever” debacle, Alice had agreed to begrudgingly let it go--or at least to not _actively_ never talk to Eliot again--on account of Eliot being clearly not okay...and having sent them mimosas and some fucking delectable waffles via Todd the next morning. It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was as close as Quentin thought they would get. 

Quentin yawned lazily, his gaze roaming from the screen in front of him, and absently landing on Eliot. Eliot was looking...maybe slightly better today? Not that Eliot ever really looked _bad_ , but for all his careful curation, Eliot often looked the way he felt. In this moment, his eyes seemed just a little clearer, and Quentin could see the color of them more vividly: like...what? Like...kind of a...warm honey hazel, or the color of the kind of whiskey that tasted like a campfire...kind of like the woods, like moss and bark, the spark of magic, colors Quentin thought Fillory was made of.

The thought made Quentin’s heart beat a little faster. His eyes wandered down to Eliot’s mouth, and he clearly remembered the images he’d seen that night that he had ever so briefly read Eliot’s mind. 

That night had been driving him crazy. Was it a joke? Was it something El had actually wanted him to see? Did Eliot know somehow that Quentin had already imagined that very thing? Maybe Eliot had already read his mind, and was throwing Quentin’s fantasies back at him. Maybe Eliot knew he’d already wondered what it would be like to feel the press of those lips against his, Eliot’s long, lean body pressed tight against his and then— _Oh fuck_ and that was Eliot meeting his gaze. 

Quentin felt his eyes go wide in his burning face. Quentin frantically tried to cover his not-so-subtle moment of masturbatory longing, jerking his head towards the television and rolling his eyes dramatically at the monotonous voice droning on about the long, _long_ history of the publishing house that had picked up _Fillory and Further_. 

Evidently, Eliot was willing to buy this and mimed back his unceremonious hanging. 

Quentin smiled. From the screen, he heard yet another ancient-looking white man in a sweater vest humble-brag about the challenges of translating the _Fillory_ books into a language that had been mostly constructed by him that he decided would have been the tongue of native Fillorians. He was clearly in love with himself. Quentin gave another nod towards the screen and the unending windbag talking and gave Eliot the universal gesture for jerking off, complete with eyes rolling back and mouth dropping open. 

Eliot’s eyebrows raised slightly and he huffed out a mostly silent laugh, and Quentin couldn’t stop the smile on his face. Now they were playing a game--Eliot always loved a game, Quentin knew. Never to be outdone and clearly paying as little attention to the documentary as Quentin himself, he responded with giving imaginary head, complete with the tongue-as-dick effect. 

Quentin smiled in earnest now. Beneath his amusement, there was another feeling at play. It was a juvenile little gesture, and yet...Quentin kinda wanted to see it again. Something that had to do with Eliot’s mouth. 

Quentin raised two spread fingers and wiggled a tongue between them. 

Eliot gave his own nipples a theatrical tweak. 

Quentin’s body supplied him with a little idea that his brain did _not_ screen for approval. Quentin’s mouth went into a little smirk as his hands quietly performed a small series of gestures. From the dropped jaw and brief rolling back of the eyes, Quentin knew his spell had worked. A magical caress, aiming at Eliot’s nipples. A joke. A part of the game, Quentin told himself. Not that Quentin at all specialized in sex magic, but he’d learned a few things in his first few weeks at Brakebills, mostly experimenting on himself. Okay, yes, exclusively experimenting on himself. Yes, he was a sad and lonely boy, but who _wouldn’t_ try to magically climax the moment they found out that was an option? 

Eliot turned an expression on him that made Quentin’s breath catch for a second. Lidded eyes and bottom lip between his teeth, Quentin could nearly hear Eliot thinking _, It’s on, Coldwater_.

Quentin exhaled, ignoring the dip in his stomach. He quirked an eyebrow at Eliot. _Bring it._

Eliot’s fingers were silent and quick, and suddenly Quentin could feel, or thought he could feel, fingertips, sliding just along the hem of his jeans. Quentin bit down on any sound, the knowledge that Alice was a few feet away both agonizing and being rationalized in every moment. “We’re just playing around,” Quentin thought. “We’re just joking.” 

But the invisible touch was traveling across his hip bone, and a warm, amazing fucking feeling was spreading, melting, below his navel. Quentin slowly wrapped a hand around the arm of the couch and dug fingers in until he thought he might tear through the fabric itself. Fuck, but it felt good.

Eliot clearly knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t seem to be hating it. His lips were parted slightly, his fingers moving lightly on the fabric of the couch--the movements matched the warm pressure Quentin felt on his abdomen, and slowly dragging lower. Quentin quietly put a hand to his own mouth, trying to look thoughtful, but really to give himself something to dig his teeth into so the groan of pleasure growing inside of him didn’t horrifyingly escape. The touch stalled just about his pants, and his eyes darted to Eliot. 

Eliot raised an eyebrow, a question. 

Quentin nodded. 

Eliot gave an almost imperceptible head tilt towards Alice. 

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded harder, nearly breaking flesh on the finger he was clenching between his teeth. 

Eliot smiled. 

The warm, tingling, champagne-sparkle feeling spread down to the base of Quentin’s dick and he felt light-headed, the room was spinning and _fuck_ how could this be so goddamn good? Quentin managed through sheer force of will to control his breathing, to stay silent, but he could tell he was trembling, and was willing to bet Eliot could tell. He turned his head and locked eyes with Eliot, who was flushed himself, licking his lips and moving his fingertips along the couch’s surface. Quentin felt the delicious sensation roam from root to head, and, god, _that. Yes. Please._ Quentin let his head fall backwards softly, turned to face Eliot, and he could feel the pleading appearing on his face. So when Eliot slowly, slowly, wrapped his fingers into a fist, Quentin could have screamed his name. His dick was wrapped in glittering heat, and he begged Eliot with his eyes to _move._ He could feel the heat of Eliot’s body sitting so close to him, Quentin’s eyes frantically darting between those long, lovely fingers he was trying to will to _move_ , to stroke him, holy shit, _please_ \--those beautiful eyes, those goddamn hypnotizing lips--so close he could reach out, and--

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” Alice said abruptly. “There wasn’t anything in there we didn’t already know. Or that we would ever really want to know.” 

She raised a hand and the screen went black. The sensation that had been intoxicating Quentin stopped suddenly and completely, leaving Quentin slightly more than half-hard (okay, maybe a lot more) and feeling almost sick at the crash of reality. All the good was gone and he couldn’t breathe. Alice was turning towards him and he quickly pulled his knees up to his chest. He found he couldn’t look at Eliot at all. 

“Mmm. Mmm hmm.” Quentin cleared his throat. “Not good,” he said, and he swore he could _hear_ Eliot rolling his eyes. 

Alice turned towards them. “I can’t believe how long they went on about _distribution rights--_ Oh. Q, are you okay? You look awfully flushed.” 

Alice didn’t seem to notice Eliot. Whether she was willfully ignoring him or Eliot was _that_ good at pulling on the mask, Quentin didn’t know. Guilt and longing writhed together in his gut in a nauseating way. Before Eliot could say or do anything, Quentin dove into speech with no particular plan. “Oh. I. Am I? I guess...I--um, Well. Was. Distracted.” 

Quentin met Alice’s eyes and summoned all the ‘come hither’ he could possibly muster, praying it was enough.

Alice raised an eyebrow before a devious smile appeared on her face. “Oh? Distracted, hm?” 

“Yeah, um,” Quentin briefly put his thumb to his lower lip. “I was thinking...um, I think we’re done here, right? For now? How about you and me go upstairs?” 

Quentin felt like garbage. 

Alice grinned her approval, holding a hand out to him. He accepted it, and helped her up. She let out a little giggle as they left the room, a sound that usually Quentin relished, but in this moment, only made him feel sick to his core. 

“You kids have fun,” Quentin heard Eliot say, and his tone was...unreadable. 

It wasn’t just a feeling--Quentin was actual garbage. 

-

**_Quentin’s Very Different Fuck Up_ **

Quentin lay on his back, spread eagle on his bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling more than a little like Prometheus chained to the rock. His insides were being gnawed, no-- _corroded_ by a toxic mixture of guilt, heartbreak, and hangover. 

It was such a different feeling than the depression he’d come to know so well (but always seemed at first like a stranger whenever it inevitably came around again). Depression was heavy, heavy, everything so heavy. His heart, his limbs, the air around him, his tongue, his words. This feeling was--was kind of electric, a lively rapids of thoughts and feelings, dulled only by the headache and the occasional wave of intense nausea. 

He and Alice were over. He could barely think it without a twin reaction of intense denial (“It’s okay. It was so stupid. She has to forgive me. We’ll figure it out.”) and bitter grief (“I fucked up the best thing that ever happened to me. I am a hopeless fucking idiot.”)

And then, there were the flashes of memories he could barely look at, not because they were so terrible, but because they were so...very _not_ terrible. He wanted to hate them, because of what they meant, of what they did, but the memories gave his stomach such a roller-coaster dip in the best possible way. Flashing tableaus in his mind: Margo’s perfectly manicured nails digging into his sides, his lower lip between her teeth. Eliot’s fingers, tangled in his hair and pulling him closer. Eliot and Margo working together to slide off his pants, four hands brushing gently down his thighs. Eliot’s velvet-soft and so-hot mouth on him. Eliot clasping his face, looking into his eyes...

How could he be thinking of these things? He was so _furious_ that he shook. Since this morning, he’d tried, exactly once, punching the wall with a roar of rage, which quickly turned into a strangled string of curses because this wasn’t tv and the wall was actually pretty fucking solid and he’d had to magic his wrist back into a reasonable shape. 

A knock came at his door, and Quentin rolled on his side in bed to give the room his back. 

“Q, honey, if this door isn’t warded up the entire ass, I’m going to be in your room in three seconds. Ready set go.” 

Quentin heard the lock jiggle, but it didn’t unlatch. Maybe Eliot would get the hint that--

Quentin jumped upright at the sound of the explosion behind him. He scrabbled up the bed until his back hit the wall, staring at the smoking hole where his door knob used to be. The door, or what remained of it, pushed open and Eliot slowly walked in, looking as surprised as Quentin felt, holding the knob from the other side in one charcoal-coated fist. 

Eliot looked at Quentin with a tentative expression. “I’m here to comfort you?” 

A part of Quentin wanted to laugh, wanted to fall apart at the seams laughing. Eliot’s expression, that fucking doorknob, the whole thing--it was objectively hilarious. But it curdled so quickly: how could he even think of _smiling_ when everything had gone so spectacularly to shit? What was _wrong_ with Quentin that he could laugh when he’d just fucking broken Alice’s heart? And what was wrong with Eliot that he didn’t seem to care that Quentin’s life was ruined? That they had actively ruined it, together. 

“Get out, Eliot,” Quentin said, managing to keep the appropriate emotions on his face. 

Eliot unceremoniously dropped the doorknob. “Certainly, but first...,” he came to sit on the edge of Quentin’s bed, and although he probably should have, Quentin didn’t stop him beyond rolling his eyes and throwing his hands in the air. It brought a new wave of rage and self-loathing that despite that _horrible_ thing he had done, which he absolutely deserved all the bad things for, it was actually nice to see his friend when he was feeling so shitty. _What an_ asshole _I am._

Quentin waited for Eliot to continue, to say something that could possibly make this shit-show better. Eliot seemed to also be waiting. 

“So,” Eliot said. And then nothing.

“Eliot, what do you _want_?” It came out so harsh and cold, and Quentin thought, _Good._

Eliot flinched as much as Eliot would ever flinch. “Okay, here it is. Quentin, I don’t apologize for sex. Especially, from what I can remember--” Eliot’s gaze caught Quentin’s “--good sex.” 

“Jesus,” Quentin groaned, covering his face with his hands. 

“But! I do apologize for the consequences of...said good sex. I--” Eliot shook his head. “I didn’t mean to hurt Alice, or you.” 

Quentin laughed here, something dark and oily bubbling inside him. “You didn’t mean to hurt Alice.” 

Eliot straightened, sitting slightly taller. “I must have missed the joke.” 

Quentin swung his legs over the side of the bed, a hot energy catching him like an ember in the updraft of a fire. “Don’t pretend like you’re somehow all broken up about how this all worked out,” Quentin spat, starting to pace. 

“I...won’t?” Eliot tilted his head a bit, looking at Quentin like _he_ was the messed up one. 

“You never gave a shit about Alice, and you never wanted us to be together,” Quentin went on, ignoring any voice that might have been warning him about what he could be burning. 

“I--okay,” Eliot held up his hands, slowly. Everything was so measured. Why did he have to be so fucking _collected_ right now? Where was hot mess Eliot that could reflect how Quentin felt? He’d certainly been there the night before.

“I will be the first to admit that there are times that I have behaved badly towards Alice...perhaps even very badly, but I do care about her--of course I do.” Eliot shrugged, shaking his head. “I want everyone in our little dysfunctional family to be happy. Except Todd. I don’t really care either way on that count.” 

“Family!” Quentin barked, dragging hands over his tired face. “Family doesn’t do this. Family doesn’t get fucked up on magic and drugs and have--have--adulterous three ways with each other!” 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s that uncommon in certain parts of Appalachia...and adulterous is a bit strong of word, don’t you--”

“Don’t! Fucking, don’t.” Quentin jabbed a finger at Eliot, who was also standing, smoothing his goddamn vest. “Don’t make this into a joke, like you make everything into a joke. _You_ called Alice an..an arrogant twat--”

“A bit harsh, granted.”

“You also basically called her frigid--”

“Now, I did apologize for that.” 

“You sent mimosas.” 

“Right.” 

Eliot’s ease infuriated Quentin--he could feel himself going off the rails. His hands were going to sides of his head, trying to help him _focus_ , to _stay here._ To discern what was real and what was feeling. The images of him and Eliot kissing during Never Have You Ever, that fucked up little _game_ on the couch, last night--that was all Eliot being made of hydrogen, carbon, magic, and sex, right? He’d...affected Quentin somehow. _Infected_ him. What did it mean if that wasn’t the case? If he actually....if Quentin had wanted this, all of this. 

Maybe even more than this. 

“You--you--manipulated me, you put this idea in my head!” Quentin pushed past Eliot to the other side of the room, for no reason other than he couldn’t seem to stand in one place. “You put those-those-pictures in my head, and, and, when were on the couch, _you_ did that thing with your--” 

“Alright,” Eliot said, one palm up. “I’m going to stop you right there. I don’t like where this is going. I understand you’re upset, you’re...you’re even heartbroken. But there is no ‘that _thing I did_.’ There’s a thing _we_ did, that you consented to. And, honestly, does a magic dick squeeze even _count_ as a _thing?_ ” 

“I don’t want to hear your rationalizations, Eliot. You ruined something good in my life, which, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, doesn’t really have a whole fuckton of good going on. I might still be happy if you had just kept it in your pants for once in your fucking life!”

_Fuck. Oh, fuck._

Quentin had to stop himself from slapping his hands over his mouth. Eliot was quiet for a moment while Quentin tried not to breath. It suddenly occurred to Quentin that Eliot had seemed to actually be sober in this conversation, possibly for this first time since Mike’s death. That struck him as significant. Eliot had lost the bitter edge, the anger and cruelty that had been underlying everything recently. Quentin had apparently picked up the mantle for him.

Quentin waited. Watched as Eliot folded his arms slowly, deliberately across his chest, raised his fingers to his mouth, his eyes lowered to the ground. And, Christ, even in this moment, Quentin wanted to kiss him. What was _wrong_ with him?

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Eliot said calmly, hands clasped together, taking a half step closer to Quentin, “my dear friend, who I love.” 

Quentin almost choked holding in the shards of a sob. 

Eliot took a step closer. “I’m going to go ahead and forgive you, right now. I know what it’s like to have grief make you...let’s say, not your best self. I understand more than you realize. You’re hurt. I understand that. But I’m also going to leave now, because I’ve got enough punishment going on, what with the, oh, _constant_ self-flagellation I’ve spent my entire life perfecting. After all…if I’m going to let you whip me, I want it to be in more interesting ways than this.” 

Eliot turned towards the broken door, which opened itself. Eliot turned back briefly. “I’ll have Todd send up my hangover cure. If you feel as very shitty as I do, you definitely need it.” Eliot met Quentin’s gaze. “I hope you feel better, Q. I’m going to get a drink.” 

And then he left. 

Quentin let himself sink to ground, landing roughly on the floor. He yelped a little, and leaned to grab whatever he’d landed on. He looked down at the burnt doorknob in his hand, and stared at it for a long moment. He laughed a little at the sad, charred thing, and then he cried. 

-

**_Eliot’s Fuck Off_ **

_De ja vu._

“De ja vu.”

_De ja fucking vu. The taste of peach. Juices, fruits so fresh they tasted unreal, unreal, it felt unreal, the first kiss felt not real, the thousandth kiss felt realer than the earth itself, the earth itself, digging into the earth itself to plant their vegetable garden, Teddy would never eat his vegetables unless I made them because Q always got them kind of soggy somehow, soggy like the heavy rain-saturated ground in spring and his joints would start aching because of the weather, and Arielle was buried out in that ground, weddings and funerals, breakfasts and flus, socks and birthday gifts, all the moments in his hand like this peach, all the moments too soft and fuzzy like Quentin sitting here, right here, whispering_ “Peaches and plums.”

“I got…so old.”

_For all the aches and pains, we did remain quite fuckable until the very end, though._

“You died.”

_The very end. Fuck. That…that fucking happened._

“I died.”

_Look at Q’s face. We used to joke about which one of us was gonna go first. I’m so glad it was me. I never wanted to lose you._

“You had a wife.”

_Rest in Peace, Arielle. I still can’t believe you had a fucking wife. But seriously, Arielle, peace. Nothing but peace._

“And we had a family.”

_Teddy. Sweet Teddy. Ours, you always said. Even now, you say,_ ”we.”

“How…how…how do we remember that?”

_He sounds like he’s going to have a panic attack. Like when Arielle went into labor. The night before Teddy left home. No. That was…that was…another life? It couldn’t have been…it couldn’t be…_

“I don’t know.”

_It couldn’t be. It was…too good. Too sweet._

“Did it happen?”

_No, it’s not possible._

“50 years.” 

_A lifetime. My lifetime. Come and gone. Fuck. Longer than I could have ever imagined being with another human being._

“It happened.” 

_No. Real. It was real. Real._

“It was sort of beautiful.”

_Oh god. And now…it’s over._

“It really was.” 

_Goodbye, life I loved. Goodbye, my son, who I raised. Goodbye, being by your side, the only place that ever made sense._

“I know this sounds dumb, but...us--we...You know, think about it. Like, we--we work. We know it ‘cause we lived it. Who gets that kind of proof of concept?”

_Oh, Q. Don’t do this to me. Don’t act like it’s not over. Don’t make this harder._

“...We were just injected with a half-century of emotion, so I get that maybe you’re not thinking clearly.”

_Here is your out. Take it. We both know it’s what you want. We’re back. Remember in the beginning when that was all you fucking wanted?_

“No, I’m just saying...what if we gave it a shot? I mean, would that be that crazy?...Why the fuck not? I...”

_You’re going to make me actually say this. Mother fucker._

“I know you, and you...aren’t…”

“What’s it matter?”

_What’s it matter? It mattered when you saw Alice naked. It mattered when Arielle came offering you peaches. You want me to forget the choices you made. And I did, for a long time. But now I remember._

“Don’t be naive. It matters. Q, come on. I love you, but you have to know that that’s not me, and that’s definitely not you, not when...not when we have a choice.”

_When you have a choice._

“Okay. I...okay. Sorry, I...” 

_I know you are._

“Nothing to apologize for.” 

_It hurt so much. It_ hurts _so much._

“It was dumb.” 

“It wasn’t.”

_I can now say from experience that this is kind of like dying._

“...You know, it occurs to me that I just went 50 years without a decent drink. I think I’m going to rectify that.” 

_Keep it light._

“Okay.” 

_It’ll be fine. Show him everything will be just fine. Otherwise, he’ll know._

“Care for something? I know there’s not a lot of great options besides Fillorian ale and the last batch of champagne they royally fuck--”

“No. Enjoy your…champagne. You know. To, like, the extent possible on what I can only assume will be curdled grape juice.” 

_See? Normal. Fine. Jokes. But he looks so…_

“Right. ...You’re sure you’re good? You look--”

“I’m fine. Like I said. Dumb.” 

_Let him believe it’s just him. It’ll be easier that way. We won’t get hurt again that way. I won’t get hurt again that way. This is the worst, but…it’s for the best._

“Right...” 

“...Right.” 

_Please say something else to keep me here._

“Later, Q.” 

_What more proof do I need?_

“...Bye, El.” 

  
And Eliot left.

-

**_Apologies_ **

It was dark, and silent. Quentin took a deep breath and the room grew brighter, and brighter, until it was almost blinding. Quentin blinked and threw up an arm to cover his eyes for just a moment. When he lowered his arm, he was in a barren room with a low ceiling that seemed, as he turned in a circle to look cautiously around himself, to have no walls. And just as Quentin was asking himself what the fuck was going on, the room began to shake. 

Quentin had a dim awareness that this wasn’t real. He vaguely remembered going to sleep. If this was a dream, he’d just make the shaking--which was rapidly intensifying, stop. Quentin had gotten a pretty good handle on lucid dreams after that whole fucking being-incepted-by-Julia-in-her-misguided-Hedge-Bitch-phase thing. Quentin looked down at his hand, and was more than mildly surprised when he was still pitched to the ground and the lights (wherever they were) flickered and blew out in a shower of sparks.

Unfamiliar territory. Funny how familiar unfamiliar things had become. Quentin pushed himself off the ground with a groan and looked up. As accustomed as he had become to surprises, usually hideous ones, he wasn’t prepared for this, and his heart broke instantly. 

Before him in the white expanse, stood Eliot, looking unsteady, frantically looking around himself. “Q?” he called before turning around and spotting Quentin. “Q,” he said reverently, before collapsing to his knees.

And even though Quentin was certain this was a dream, another fucking Eliot dream, he responded automatically: “Eliot!” Quentin rushed over to where he kneeled on ground, his head dropped backwards, laughing in a way that filled Quentin with ocean-water sadness. 

“I did it,” Eliot said, seemingly more to himself. “I fucking did it. Holy fucking God. I can’t believe it. I’m kind of amazing. Well, and, luckily, your wards are still as fucked as ever.” 

Quentin couldn’t help but smirk and offer Dream-Eliot a hand, helped him to his feet.

Immediately Eliot’s arms lifted to go around him, and Quentin put up a hand and stepped back. He could feel his throat tightening, his eyes throbbing, even as he was aware that this body was only in his mind. 

“Q?” Eliot questioned in a broken voice. 

“I...fuck. Eliot. No. Not-Eliot. Quentin’s fucking subconscious. My god. I...I can’t keep doing this to myself,” Quentin managed. _It isn’t real. It isn’t real. Eliot is trapped underneath a monster. Eliot is so very far away._

“Okay, Q, you think you’re dreaming, and I get that, because you are, but I’m projecting right now, I figured out a way out, with Charlton’s help--not forever, probably even not for long, but I swear to you, I am here right now.” 

Quentin stared at Eliot miserably. “This is a new one,” he said to himself. “Clever, I’ll grant you that. Or, I’ll grant me that, I guess.” 

“Okay, okay, I should have predicted this, but we--we can work with it,” Eliot said, rolling up his sleeves. “You can lucid dream.” 

Quentin shrugged. “Usually, it’s not a problem. But this dream is--different.”

Eliot smirked. “You listen to me, Quentin Coldwater--it’s not the dream that’s different, it’s _me_ that’s different. Quick--make us a place to sit, please.” 

Quentin sighed, decided to fucking lean in, and made a couch. A lush French-style red-velvet tufted settee with gold trim appeared beside them. 

Eliot knew instantly this was not a piece of furniture Quentin would ever have chosen for himself, but that he made it with a frankly fucking adorable combination of understanding that Eliot liked lush things and only the dimmest grasp of interior design. Eliot gave Quentin a fond look, and Quentin avoided his gaze. “It’s a little Moulin Rouge, but I’ll take it as a compliment. Now. You know you have control over your dream. You just tested it. Try to control me.” 

Quentin looked at Dream-Eliot like he was crazy. 

“That...sounds--”

Eliot gripped Quentin by the shoulders, firmly. “Quentin, do it.” 

Quentin nodded and let out a deep sigh. His dreams were certainly becoming...interesting. It was a nice change of pace from the truly masochist montage of the Monster’s most depraved moments and replaying all the greatest hits from the Quentin and Eliot Have Mind-blowing Sex reel. 

_Okay, try to make Eliot do something_...Quentin was more than a little chagrined that the first thing that automatically popped into his brain was bringing Eliot back to his knees. Luckily, he was spared the strange humiliation of mind-controlling Dream Eliot into giving him a blow job by Eliot slapping him full in the face: not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to shock the hell out of him. Quentin stumbled a few steps backwards, more from surprise than anything else. As much as Quentin enjoyed punishing himself, he was pretty certain he didn’t do that. 

“Ow,” Quentin said, putting a hand on the offended cheek. Eliot balled fists into Quentin’s ratty tshirt, yanking him back to him. 

“Do you believe me?” Eliot asked, voice a little rough with pleading. And this close--Quentin couldn’t quite tell if it was wishful thinking--something seemed different. The hundred other dreams seemed like watered down versions of this--lo-fi, and now here was Eliot in high-definition. The dark eyelashes, the glittering eyes, currently rimmed red with tears, the lips so familiar he could taste them after all these months. Quentin’s heart expanded and collapsed on itself in the exact same moment. “El?” he whispered, brushing hesitant fingers against Eliot’s cheek. 

They gripped each other so hard that if they hadn’t been in Quentin’s head, they would both have bruises. They shook with tears and laughter. “God, I’ve missed you.”

Eliot broke away to lead Quentin by the hand to the couch Eliot was certain he’d be secretly snickering about for years to come, if he survived. _Red velvet, my god._ It was hard to concentrate with Quentin staring at him like he was some kind of miracle, fingers whispering over the features of his face, like he was afraid Eliot might disappear if he touched. Eliot cleared his throat and took Quentin’s hands in his own between them, partly because he knew sometimes Quentin needed to be pinned down and grounded, and very much also because it was so goddamn good to touch Quentin’s hands again, if only in this dream.

“Okay. As much as I’d love to say I just dropped in for coffee and blow jobs, I need to talk to you seriously for a moment.” 

Fear crept it’s way onto Quentin’s face, lit up his eyes. “Is this about the Monster? Is he planning something? Are you o--”

“No, it’s nothing like that. We’re all...well...just as fucked as we were before this dream started, but no more so. I need...Q. I need for you to...um...relay some messages for me. Please. In case. Well. You know. In case I--” 

“No, Eliot. Just--no.” 

Eliot smiled softly, fondly at Quentin, face all full of fire and determination. Eliot reached out, gently cupping Quentin’s cheek. 

“Please don’t argue. You know what we’re up against.”

Eliot’s heart was heavy, sinking through his body, as he watched Quentin’s expression break into grief. Quentin exhaled roughly and took a few deep breaths to collect himself, then nodded at Eliot. “Okay. Okay. I can try.” 

Eliot nodded sharply, as a crisp knot tied itself in his throat. “M-Margo,” Eliot said, pausing to bite his lower lip and gather his composure around him. “Give her this, and tell her it’s from me.” 

Before Quentin could ask, Eliot kissed him. The kiss was--was like pillows, and laying on your back in the sun, and a hug when you really need it, and the perfect midday buzz on the best mimosa you’ve ever had. It was love--soft, accepting, and with just enough touch of something else to be fun.

“Are you sure it won’t just be...you know….just super fucking weird if I do it?” Quentin laughed.

“She’ll know,” Eliot said, a little hoarsely. “My Bambi will know it’s from me.” 

Quentin nodded, still trying to steady his breath. “I’ll do my best to translate.”

He watched Eliot collapse backwards onto the couch, looking suddenly exhausted. He lifted an arm in invitation, and Quentin allowed himself to relax back into it. 

“Honestly, I’m not even sure what to say to the rest of them. I’ve had all this time to think, and still…what do you say? I’m sorry? I’m sorry we all got so thoroughly deep dicked by the fucking universe and, you know, sometimes by each other?” Eliot laughed a little, and Quentin bit his lip, savoring the rumbling he could feel next to him. “I don’t know. Penny got a raw deal. I kinda think Alice still hates me.” Eliot nodded to himself. “Okay, tell 23 he can have my refilling flask and whatever of my scarves he would like. He’ll pretend he doesn’t want them but just leave my room unlocked, and eventually he’ll get the fuck over himself and take what he wants.”

Quentin was feeling sick to his core. He wanted to stop Eliot, to tell him that he was going to be there to wear as many fucking scarves as he wanted and suck on his flask until his liver exploded because they were going to save him. _Quentin was going to save him_. But he just felt too weak, and tired, and sad, and he didn’t want to argue, he just wanted to be near Eliot. 

Instead he said, “This feels morose.” 

“That’s because it is, darling. Tell Kady I said I always liked her lipstick choices. She’ll know what that means.” 

“Does it mean that you liked her lipstick choices?” 

“Yes.”

  
“Ah.” 

“And you know what Q?” Eliot said, thoughtfully shaking a finger in the air. “Tell Todd I’ve actually always liked him. It should bring him some comfort in his time of crippling grief. And it’s mostly true.” 

“I will,” Quentin said. He was having the curious experience of smiling, genuinely smiling, and crying at the same time. 

“Tell Julia I said to please, please take good care of our favorite nerd,” Eliot said, almost not choking. 

Quentin’s eyes overflowed, but he just nodded. 

“Give Alice my book on sex magic,” Eliot smiled, even as Quentin rolled his eyes vigorously. “I would like it presented without comment, please.”

“She’ll love that,” Quentin mumbled, with a smirk touching his lips.

“Okay.” Eliot sighed, and sat up, giving it his full effort, remembering what it felt like to hold a crown on his head. He needed a little regality at the moment. He turned to Quentin, who was looking at him with--god--with such _feeling_ that Eliot felt like might collapse under the weight of it. Die from the feelings of devastation and elation slowly spiraling around each other in his chest. “I--I have to say something to you. It’s not something I say lightly or often or ever, actually, so I need you to pay attention.” 

Quentin pushed himself to an upright posture, tucking hair behind his ears. Eliot could feel Quentin’s devoted focus, and took a deep breath. He could do this. If he could live inside a deranged god-monster for months, he could spend a few seconds being vulnerable with the man he’d loved for more than half a century. 

“You were right and I was wrong,” Eliot shoved out. 

Quentin blinked a few times. “Um? Context please?” 

“Peaches and plums.” Eliot risked making eye contact with Quentin. “It wasn’t dumb at all, it was...brillant. You were right. We worked. We worked...well. I just couldn’t believe it.” Eliot strained around the roots tangled in his throat, growing thicker, deeper by the moment. Flashes of memory he tried his best to keep tucked away pressed to the front of his mind, falling behind his eyes like photographs from an overturned box: hot kisses on warm nights, blankets that smelled like each other, their sound of their son’s laughter and his wails of sadness, reading worry on the lines of each other’s faces, shared meals, irritable fights, mixed up pants, broken cups, snores, apologies, hugs, fingers, tears, thousands of kisses. Beautiful pieces. And then at the end, finally, crashing back into their reality, sinking into the bitter understanding that _of course_ it wasn’t real. Eliot would never be allowed something that good in his _actual_ life. “Q, I was...I was just...too afraid…” 

Eliot faltered. He pressed a balled fist against his mouth. He was angry, so fucking angry at himself. Angry not only for missing this beautiful, golden opportunity handed to him on a silver goddamn platter, but having the audacity to try to ask for it back now that it was so far out of reach it was laughable. _I am a true asshole,_ Eliot thought. 

He came back to himself when he felt Quentin quietly, softly slip his fingers between his own, resting softly on his knee. When Eliot looked again, Quentin’s expression wasn’t angry, it wasn’t broken, it was--god--understanding. Compassionate. More than Eliot deserved. 

“I know,” Quentin said, simply, softly. 

And Eliot came apart. He somehow fell while sitting down, into Quentin’s shoulder, and felt Quentin’s arms immediately come to wrap around him, to hold him close. He heard Quentin saying, quietly “It’s okay, you don’t have to be sorry. I’m sorry too. You’re not the only one that’s ever been an asshole here.” Eliot dully realized a string of apologies was still falling from his own lips. He felt Quentin’s hands on the sides of his face, and was dimly aware of being brought to Quentin’s lips. Eliot felt pliant, open, eager, hungry, dying to give and receive everything Quentin wanted. 

Quentin didn’t know if now--while they were crying messes, brimming over with grief and losses past and still to come--was the right time for a make out session, but Jesus Christ, he couldn’t survive another minute without kissing Eliot, he needed it like breathing. Their lips met like lightning meets the earth, Quentin’s arms sliding around Eliot’s neck, feeling Eliot’s hands pressing against his back. Their tongues tasted each other, hot and wet, and Quentin needed closer. Eliot’s lips marked a blazing trail down Quentin’s neck, and he still needed closer. Kisses pressed against his chest, electrifying his body, and, fuck, it was so good and not nearly enough. 

And then Eliot suddenly stopped, and Quentin wanted to murder the who, what, or why that had made this happen.

“Um, Q?” 

Quentin opened his eyes and breathed long enough to realize that they were no longer on the couch, but on a crisp, clean, white bed in the still vast white space of Quentin’s dream-world. Eliot gave a little cough and Quentin realized that he was naked. Naked, and clearly aroused. 

“Well. Shit,” Quentin observed. “I guess this is not exactly me playing hard to get.” 

“Speaking of hard,” Eliot said with a lift of his eyebrow. He watched Quentin’s body flush pick with embarrassment before he reached for a pillow and made to cover his frankly gorgeously hard dick. Eliot caught his wrist. 

“Don’t. Please. I want to see you.” 

Quentin ducked his head but dropped the pillow. 

“Beautiful,” Eliot sighed, and he watched Quentin smile shyly in return. Quentin’s smile turned to an expression of need, his lower lip going between his teeth, as Eliot’s clothes also disappeared from his body. “So. It’s your dream, Q. What do you want to happen next?” 

Quentin did not hesitate. “I want you, Eliot. All of you. Please.”

“It’s been a long time. Do you think you--” 

“In real life, no. But we have some advantages here.” Quentin waved a hand and the white, antiseptic surroundings were gone in an instant, replaced by a wide, open field under a night sky saturated with starlight. Eliot could smell wildflowers and earth. A breeze caressed his cheek. His throat tightened. 

“This is--perfect,” he said, voice catching slightly. He smirked. “And I hope whatever Bordello you got that couch from is happy for it’s return.” 

Quentin’s face lit up with mock indignation. “You bougie bitch.” With a wide grin, he attacked Eliot, both of them laughing into the brisk night air. Quentin triumphantly climbed Eliot’s body, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists to the bed. Eliot’s laughter quickly became a gasp of pleasure at the weight of Quentin’s body on his. 

“Listen, I know this is your wet dream we’re creating here, but I can’t help but feel that we’re missing some steps,” Eliot managed to get out. He felt an unexpected anxiety. This was possibly the last time they might ever be together, and however that truth mangled Eliot’s heart, he wanted to make it as perfect as possible in this moment, here and now.

“El, we’re kind of idiots for doing this at all,” Quentin pointed out, sweeping back a curtain of brown hair. “The monster could notice you’re missing at any moment, and we don’t have much time before--goddamnit--before my fucking _alarm clock_ goes off. And-and--I need this, please, do you understand? Can we just--I need y--”

Eliot cut Quentin off, raising his upper body to meet Quentin’s mouth in a kiss that tasted like saltwater and desperation. Eliot pulled Quentin closer by the nape of his neck, felt Quentin’s body writhing in his lap, rubbing himself against Eliot’s hard--almost painfully hard, now--dick. Something about Quentin needily struggling to take Eliot in made him feel lightheaded with want. It was so fucking good, and Quentin was so beautiful--eyes dark with desire, brow drawn together, hair a wreck, mouth falling open as his head tilted back in rapture. Quentin’s fingers tangled in his curls and suddenly his lips were devouring Eliot’s throat as Eliot slid strong hands to grip the perfect curve of Quentin’s ass, to brush fingers against Quentin’s hole, already literally magically lubricated, wet and dripping with arousal. Eliot could smell spring fruits, taking him tumbling through fragmented memories of flesh and sweat and moans. 

Quentin could almost feel Eliot floating away, and running on animal instinct and urgent need, he bit into Eliot’s shoulder, and could feel Eliot convulse with a current of pleasure and pain. “Stay with me, El,” Quentin panted. Eliot’s fingers were pulling him apart, pushing into him, working him into a frenzy and Quentin felt his eyes roll back. “Please,” Quentin murmured. His hips were bucking, grinding down onto Eliot’s fingers in a way that might have been embarrassing if Quentin could give a flying fuck about anything but getting Eliot’s hard dick inside him. “Please, El.” 

Finally, he felt the head of Eliot’s dick rubbing against his hole, slowly slipping in, cautiously, sweetly. Quentin looked down and saw Eliot staring at him, mouth slightly open in an expression that felt like awe. Quentin let loose a low, keening groan as he sank onto Eliot’s dick, his own twitching and leaking between his legs. The feeling of being filled by Eliot, surrounded by his scent and his touch and his voice hammered home for Quentin just how empty he had been. His entire awareness was in his skin, his body, until he heard Eliot say, “Q, look.” 

Quentin looked around them, riding Eliot slowly, easily, with familiarity, as he watched the flowers in the field blossom into outrageous brilliance with bioluminescent light. “I’m not--I’m not doing that,” Quentin huffed. His body was filling with warm ecstasy, like an ocean wave beginning to swell. 

“I think--I think _we_ are,” Eliot panted. “Together.” Eliot bit down on the inside of his lip, and if it weren’t a dream he would have surely drawn blood, as he surged up into Quentin, into the perfect, slick, tight heat of him, driven forward by Quentin’s cries of “ _Fuck, yes, more, Eliot.”_ Eliot noticed as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes that stars were falling, flashes of glittering radiance, more by the moment, and something told Eliot that they didn’t have long. 

He wrapped a hand around the back of Quentin’s head--Quentin, who looked like he might pass out, fucked-out and gorgeous--and pulled him close. Eliot demanded Quentin’s focus, even as he continued to thrust in a steadily-building, intoxicating rhythm. “Listen to me, Q,” Eliot ground out. “My body belonged to you _first_. He’s got it for now, but it’s yours--do you understand me? I’m yours, Q.” 

Quentin trembled, shook, sobbed, nodded, holding on to Eliot for dear life as they moved against each other. “I love you, El. Fuck, I love you.” 

“I’m sorry,” El whispered, and Quentin nodded, whispered “Me too,” as they dropped their foreheads together.

The world was going white, wildflowers bursting into small earth-bound supernovas, the sky obscured by shooting stars, and Eliot and Quentin were coming undone, intensity bursting from them, pouring over and in each other, painting their entire consciousness in a feeling too good for words, crying each other’s names as they came, clawing at each other even as they were being pulled apart. Everything was overwhelmed by blinding brightness, before returning to the dark, and the silence.

**Author's Note:**

> So, these are five lil chunks of fic that are, in some ways, very different from each other. It's more of a collection than one story, really. The unifying theme is Eliot and Quentin, shall we say, not being their best selves...until the end. 
> 
> Part 1 takes place after S01xE08, The Strangled Heart. Eliot is an asshole to Alice and fucks with Quentin, ostensibly 'for their own good,' but, real talk, his grief is taking some nasty forms. Heads up for intoxication, kinda low-key cheating vibes, non-consensual exposure to erotic images, and Todd-bashing. 
> 
> Part 2 is a *koff koff* semi-nebulous point in S01. Quentin makes questionable, lust-driven choices that are not particularly kind to Alice. I don't hate Alice as much as this fic might make it seem. Um. She's also probably not my favorite, tho, either. Heads up for secrecy, definitely less low-key cheating vibes, and some explicit description of sexy times that are interrupted. 
> 
> Part 3 is the morning after S01x11, Remedial Battle Magic, in which it is Quentin's turn to have his grief take some nasty forms. During this part of the show, Eliot is the hottest of messes, but in this fic, he makes a conscious effort to pull himself together for Q. Heads up for very bad communication. 
> 
> Part 4 is piecing together two conversations, the one at the end of S03x05, A Life in The Day, and S04x05, Escape from the Happy Place. This part is different from the others, in that we get Eliot's interior monologue during the conversation. 
> 
> Part 5 takes place during S04, after S04x05. Quentin and Eliot are able to connect. Heads up for explicit actual sexy times, slapping in the face, and for an ambiguous ending that I suppose could be considered happy. I like to think it is. 
> 
> Phew! I think that's everything? I love exploring all the fucked up nooks and crannies of this relationship--it's like a flaming romantic English muffin. Queliot, now and forever. <3 Hope you enjoy!


End file.
